Army of Me
by Kamineko
Summary: Dorothy unplugged a while after EW ends. Her imaginary short diary before staring living.again.


Author's note: Ok I admit I prefer the weird characters because well ... they make all the rest seem so dull. And 1+2+3+4+5 are like everywhere. So I try something a bit about the extras.   
It may seem weird at times but I just don't see Dorothy sitting down and writing like a good girl in an orderly manner.  
Warnings: emotional abuse and ... Don't expect bashing here because this is not a humour fic. And don't expect a good sweet Dorothy (that would be a total fiction not a fanfiction).  
Disclaimers: I don't own Gundam Wing in any way.   
  
R&R is most appreciated.  
  
Army of Me  
  
Timeline: a couple of weeks after the end of the last GW story.(Endless Waltz that is).  
  
  
  
[First page - a smudge of a formless sketch made with a purple thick marker]  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
Dear Diary,  
I haven't written anything in you, ever since I've bought you three years ago. And the funny thing is that I swore to myself never to begin my first page with such a lame line. I am not a "pink diary" girl. This is the last thing I am.   
I don't know how people who spend time writing in diaries start this thing, or even if this is a start or just a scratch. Why now? Well, I just hope that later on, when you'll read these lines, Dorothy, you can give me the answer.   
  
It has been two weeks and three days since this last war we had has ended. Three weeks ago I could've named this war with a big original title, but right now I know it is futile. It is just another meaningless happening that came and passed like most crisis do.   
I am only surprised I am still so much alive and how little I do miss the one thing I used to praise so much. Battle. I believed in it, I believed in it so much. But now I know that the object of my veneration was not real. It was never real.  
  
I look around me, in the stations, the bus stops, the TV programs, and everywhere there is this fever of waking up, of the opportunities war brought with itself. Everybody has a place to be at now. They may not like it, but it is there. It is as if during war reality ceased to exist, and now we are all forced to get back in the real world.   
No more reasons to run behind guns when the stock issues arise or bankruptcy is near.   
  
We are alive, we have survived and the rest is just one huge corpse which none really knows what do with. So it is best to hide it under the cover. And pretend it is for the sake of "peace" to forgive and forget. Nobody does that. They just put it away in a wooden box inherited from grandma till it is time to look for argument sometime later.   
Do you see people refusing to buy colonies' products if they're cheaper? I don't.   
  
I don't know what corpses I have to deal with. Because after a short period of shock, of "no it can't be over just like that", I don't feel dead. My body is not a corpse, because it lusts for sweet indulgements. My heart is not a corpse because it holds so much fever in it. My soul is not a corpse because there's still a fire inside me and the flames of battle seem to have failed in cooling it.  
  
I don't know what I want but I know now there is no fixed path onto which I am forced to follow. I am free. So free that my body trembles of the desire to walk and go.   
  
Away. Far way. No traffic signs await for me, yes. But this means no stop signs either.   
  
Today I met Relena again and maybe this is the reason why I am writing all this.  
She had nothing new to say to me. Just some demands to make. Or.. how did she put it? "Requests". I said "no" and I laughed. I know it will come a time when I am alone in my bed at night and I will regret having turned down one last offer which would've hold me close to all the people I have been spending these past few years with. She may ask me again later or not. It doesn't matter. I would say "no" and go. She knew she was prisoner of her own old thoughts and whishes. She can hope and feel nothing more than she is feeling right now.   
Does she feel a fire like I do...lurking from the back of her mind...making her act in a certain way...strangling her soul with a tight grip...making her confound pain with pleasure...? No way. If she did she would run away to the future. Like I do. I can't feel sorry for her though. Freedom is what one makes with one's own hands.  
  
I can't believe I have been this blind to my wish of glory for all those years. My grandpa's ideas were just raw material from which I would get my feverish existence a sense. I wanted to want. I loved the idea of loving an idea. Even if it was wrong. Because it was wrong. But then why is any thing wrong? Why is it virtue to do just the things allowed even if deep inside you don't understand why it is so? Why it is wrong to be yourself?   
That's what they all say. "Be yourself, be yourself". They don't want to ever meet this "yourself" they keep talking about. They want the "yourself" you Must be. The one who causes no problems. Who listens. Who is "a good pal". Who is accordingly and properly built.  
Some people don't understand their fellow humans like I do. Just because I see no wonder in "being human", the true human, I am all wrong. I lack the naivety required.   
  
So that battle is over. And I was always on the wrong side. Read the "losers side". Just because I wanted it to last. Because I wanted it. I simply did want it. It was unreal. It gave me the opportunity to be outside of reality. All the others allowed themselves to be dragged within it.   
I CHOSE.   
Because I knew what I wanted. I wanted passion and pain in my life. I wanted the flames.  
And now I am left with my deeply forged teen anxieties and problems none has ever found an answer too. Now I have to "deal" with it. What do they expect me to do right now? Oh wait, I know. Through "dealing with it" they actually mean "finding the answer we have found, the proper answer, the right answer, THE answer".   
  
I don't want that. I don't understand why Relena wants it. I don't understand why Duo and Quatre and all the others boys, who are supposed to be my age, search so much for what they call "Normality". Capital letter and bolded characters just to pierce in your eyes and brain and bring you "Peace". Why do people want rest while they are alive, while warm blood is flowing through their veins and their flesh is still hot and they know the elders have discovered so little, and in fact everything is still raw and fresh and wild and unknown?   
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Dear Diary,  
I notice I can't put a date in my diary because I don't want it to be like a news report. This is nothing. This means nothing. Nobody will ever read it, and if they do then the date won't mean anything to them.   
Anyway I have decided to try something new, in the spirit of all that I have written two days ago. So now you are my Diary even if this sounds pinky and silly. I know I am not like that so I don't have to defend myself in front of Dorothy.   
You understand me Diary because your are blank and I am making you. You are my baby.   
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Today I met a woman in at the mall who wanted to make me a model. She said I had "interesting eyes".   
Today I met a girl from that old school of Relena's and we had coffee and we talked. We both agreed it is time to start from scratch and make changes. I asked her if I should dive my hair in red. She said "oh yes, you could just wax your eyebrows and then just redraw them. It would be like none could ever notice, ya know."  
I don't know what to do. Or what to think. I know I love so much being original but right now I feel like every word she said came from a supreme being who knew all about happiness in life. And success as well. I cried all afternoon. I feel so ugly.  
  
I miss my daddy. He always made me feel wonderful. Like I was at the center of the whole damned universe. He made me feel loved. I suppose this is the purpose of all women - to be loved. If they're not, then they live for nothing. They could be dead and buried or young and glamorous, it wouldn't matter.   
A woman who's not loved is like an empty shell.  
  
I have been infatuated with the fire and the flames for so long. Did they love me back? I suppose so since the excitement they brought to my soul soothed so much the eagerness of my body.   
  
They did love me back. They didn't love the others like they loved me. Because none else picked them up and held them so closely to their heart like I did.   
  
Of all the things of life I chose the flames.   
  
I don't care if it is unappropriate to think like this. But yes, I am so glad I had the power to choose the things I liked best. And I asked none for their permission. And when they blamed me and showed me wrong I didn't change under their righteous pressure.   
  
It was my right to live and I used it.  
  
So why should I care what other people think? They can only think what they've been taught to. They can only think the ideas which would keep them safe and warm and accepted.  
  
So I don't care what they say about me. Or the good-willing advices they give me. They want me to be gray and stern like themselves. To see this change and find pleasure in it. And to feel powerful over me.  
  
But I know better. I know "myself", my true self, is only a heart beat away from this fire of my life.  
I have been infatuated with fire for so long. It is now time to love it fully. And be loved.  
  
  
  
  
Oh yes, and today I met Quatre again.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
My dear Diary,   
I don't know why so many people always refer to Quatre as "sweet, caring and loving". There is just so much still to say about him.   
I notice his beautiful sky-blue eyes. His nose so thin and lips so perfectly drawn. I have a dozen of adjectives for his shoulders and his strong thin thighs. For the way he moves and the smell of his sweat.   
He makes me want to grab the corners of my the chair I sit in and sink deep under, into the coolness of the earth.   
Is funny how even those silly shirts he wears make me feverish. I feel like so much treasures lie beneath their silky cover. So much tight skin and muscles. Such a hot bed to lay my head upon and listen to his heart beat. His heart, so big they say.  
  
He is so perfect. He never even once demands anything from me like it is his birth-given right. His voice is soft even when he's angry. Maybe some girls feel like "oh he's too much for me, I couldn't even dream to...". But I dare. I dream about what is like to...  
  
No, I needn't dream about it. He is there. For me to touch him. For me to sink my fingers in his golden hair. For me to let my body loose between his arms. For me to die there, all around me. It is my birth-given right to do so. My right as a woman. My right to cease to exist apart as a distinct being. My right to give up any right under his lips. None can take this away from me.   
  
I feel as if, for the first time in my life the fire I feel inside me starts to outline itself. It starts having a shape. A sense. Never have I felt so close of finding out something true and absolute about life. Something that lies in the pores of every man's skin. Something that hides behind all movements of bodies. Something secret. A true secret. One that I have uncovered myself. Not from the wrinkled lips of old men. Something real.   
  
*** *** ***  
  
Guess what happened today Diary? Can you imagine bitchy Dorothy going all blushy? Well it is happening right now while I am writing this. It is so fortunate it didn't happen before.   
  
But Quatre was all red when he asked me to go on a "evening walk" with him tomorrow. He says he wants to see this old London city by night and he won't do it alone. I answered so quickly and unhesitatingly. I am so happy. I know what I want. It is mine. And I am going to get it. I am winning and none can stop me.   
  
He wants me. He wants Me. Millions of ideas about the shapes his desires towards me take are turning and tossing in my head. I feel my flesh shivering of the promised and long awaited pleasure that is getting nearer and nearer.   
  
I am a woman. I feel so much like it. I need no "Cosmopolitan" advices and tips. They all seem obsolete. Belonging to a world that has ceased to exist ..starting two seconds ago. A world into which I did what others told me to. A world into which I have allowed my desires to be twisted among their owns.   
No more.   
  
Starting now, you are swearing to do what you feel like doing it, Dorothy. No matter what. No strings attached, other than those entangled on your own fingers.   
The future is here.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Dear Diary, it has been three hours since it happened. I won't tell you. I'll never tell you. Dorothy will never read about this things.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
She had come a little late. But he wasn't upset. We all know how girls are. He had liked her new perky dress. She had liked his new sporty outfit. All so expensive, she had thought casually.   
They walked along Oxford street and talked about all the small things that don't matter. She took him at a new bar she read about in a magazine. He blushed. He said the bar looked so intimate.   
They both watched the nonconformist fun British youth displayed in the bar. He blushed. She laughed. He looked down. She leaned on his arm. He put it around her waist. She smiled.  
  
They ran out of the bar in search of new exciting things to see at night. She said "let's go to Soho". He didn't deny her wish. They ended up in the subway station. She found a lost magazine on a sit. They read it. It was a tabloid. They both laughed. She leaned against his arm. He blushed.  
  
She said maybe Soho wouldn't be that funny after all. Too many people. Crowds and noises and no place to do anything. He agreed. He said :"let's go see a movie". She said: "no, a movie? That is no fun. We would both just feel sleepy". He blushed. She smiled.   
He said "you know what? Maybe we just need some coffee. Afterwards we'll be fresher. Let's go down in my apartment at the hotel". She laughed. He blushed. He laughed.   
  
They went to the hotel.  
  
He started doing some coffee. She jumped on the big bed and turned the TV on. She started making funny jokes of the silly quiz shows she saw. They laughed. He brought the coffee. They drank it. They watched even more TV. Someone turned it off. It was boring.   
  
An awkward silence embraced the room. They sat beside each other looking down at the carpet. She looked up towards him and found him looking at her. He was blushing.   
She leaned forward. He kissed her. She thought his lips were soft and it was like kissing a cheek. She tried to test his lips with her tongue and found his teeth too clenched and stopping her from exploring his mouth. She moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder. Their tongues met. She thought his tongue was soft and it felt like a wet marine creature. He put his arms around her. She thought his embrace was like touching an wounded person, no tension in it. She wondered if he thought she was made of porcelain.   
She pulled her mouth away from his. She met his startled timid eyes. She kissed his neck softly. She felt the grip of his arms growing tighter around her. She moved down and brushed her cheek against his sweater. She felt the metal belt of his jeans hit her down lip.  
  
She unbuttoned his jeans. She felt his hands grabbing her back and trying to pull her away shyly. She looked up and met his blue eyes filled with questions and apologies. "You don't have to..." Not even a single word sounded in the hotel room yet she heard the phrase all to clear. She smiled like an apology. He blushed in approval.  
She went down. Moving her lips slowly. Finding the rhythm he liked. She heard no moan from him. Yet when she finally looked up she met the gratitude and passion in his eyes. She let her body fall back on the silky cover of the bed. He moved closer and looked down at her.   
She unbuttoned her dress. He took off his sweater. She closed her eyes for not seeing his shaky hands as he pulled of his shoes.   
She threw her dress off somewhere in the room. He was looking a bit scared, a bit apologetic to her. She ignored the clouds that covered his eyes and curved her body as an invitation. He moved with uncertainty closer to her and she put her legs around him. He caressed her neck and the skin of her arms. She moaned and sighed feeling her head full of unexpected bliss. He asked her :"are you cold?". She shook her head and tried to pretend the question was never asked. He pulled his underwear off and she tore off hers.   
She looked at him and smiled and he kissed her lips again and her neck and stopped and looked down at her uncertain. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the uncertainty was an illusion. It didn't fit the scene.   
She pulled her tummy up. She pressed it closer to his body and felt with overcoming joy a new hardness between his thighs. She felt high. She felt alive. She heard all the songs she loved in her ear and more.   
He finally moved towards her flesh fire. She felt him closer. She cried silently. She felt a burn and a pain, a pain of such pleasure no dream has ever promised her. She looked up at him and saw the him bite his lip like a child caught with hands in the cookie jar. She pretended not se this. She closed her eyes and kept them like that.  
She felt high. She felt high from many points of view. She felt away. Away from his shaky hands and his bitten lip. She smiled.  
  
She found him staring down at her. She felt like her fire was burning in every corner of her body. She felt so free and alive. And powerful. She heard him mutter words she didn't want to hear. They didn't belong to this scene. They sounded weird and strange to her ears and she suddenly felt misplaced. But she felt so free. She knew what she wanted. She knew what she felt like doing.   
  
She got up and sat on the edge of the bed.   
She laughed. She sat and watched the light of his eyes slowly fading. She smiled and grabbed his hand. It was wet and cold and soft. She shrugged and saw the corners of his eyes benting under the weight of her gaze.   
She hugged him and moved some blond locks off his forehead.  
She laughed.  
  
The air of the morning was cold and wet and she ran down towards the subway station. She felt free. She felt so bitterly at home. The smell of the tunnels filled her nostrils and every pore of her body.   
  
She ran up, out of the neon lit world of the tunnels. It was chilly. And foggy. She felt a little sad from a very obscure reason. She felt her own tears mixing with the fog's moisture.   
  
*** *** ***  
  
Dear Diary, we haven't spent much time together. I have little more time to write here within you while I am waiting for my train to come. This is the last time I write, I know, because from now on my life will be so exciting I will never have the mood (or time) to write down.   
Maybe you feel betrayed and you feel like your true destiny as a diary was stolen from you. I don't know.   
This is not a diary. This is something of mine. Something I have made and I end here. Why? Because I watch the long lines of rails. I see their metal shine melting in the morning blur. Because I see the sparkle of the rising sun on their surface, between the dark marks of earth and mud.   
I see nothing...thin air and a foggy horizon. Something floating undecided at the extent of which I can guess the shape of my future. My desires. My life. To create. I hold this thought in my head and role it for the moment I will close this diary.   
They won't drag me down. I am sorry, but I can't let them.  
She cried.  
She smiled.   
She closed the notebook and got up in the train.   
  
  
  
~~~ ~~~ ~~~  
  
[Blank pages]  
  



End file.
